


coming back as we are

by blackwood (transjon)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Caning, Dom/sub, Implied Sexual Content, Other, Tit Torture, Trans Male Character, i guess thats close enough. daisy canes jons chest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:40:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28611477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transjon/pseuds/blackwood
Summary: The thing about Jon, Daisy thinks idly, is that he doesn’t really ask for things. Not out loud, anyway.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47
Collections: t4tma week 2021





	coming back as we are

**Author's Note:**

> day 4 of t4tma - bdsm!
> 
> title is from the scientist by coldplay
> 
> jons a trans man, daisys some flavour of nb. jons chest is referred to w/ the words tits/breasts/chest, theyre kind of the whole point of this fic. he doesnt have top dysphoria. the scene fades out after the caning, but they have penetrative sex of an unspecified kind after. no genitalia words used.

The thing about Jon, Daisy thinks idly, is that he doesn’t really ask for things. Not out loud, anyway. 

Of course there’s the initial discussions. The setting of boundaries, and the negotiations of scenes – Jon saying _I want_ and Daisy telling him what he’s asking for isn’t safe, and Jon pouting about it, or Jon saying _I want_ and Daisy trying hard to not lose herself in the power she’s been offered – or the assignment of safewords, or the defining of what counts as a stop. What the scene is supposed to mean. What he wants to get out of it. 

But when it comes to the actual scene, the asking for it to start – the transition from regular life to this – Jon doesn’t ask. 

Daisy curls her hand around the nape of Jon’s neck. “Cane or crop?” she asks. Jon’s breath hitches as he thinks, chest heaving for just a second, and then he goes, very softly, “cane.”

It’s what she’d thought he would say. It hurts, she knows – has tapped and then swung it against her own thigh or arm enough times to get a feel for how much force to put into it and determined for the amount of pain to be just on the better side of unbearable. The impact is long and concentrated all along the length of it. The crop is – it’s not as intimidating. Little concentrated leather square. Just something to focus on. Jon tends to drift further inside of his head with it, which he needs sometimes. Usually he doesn’t. Of course there’s her hand, too, but that’s for spanking. Easier with a tool of some sort when it comes to this area of his body. 

“How many?” she asks, her other hand coming up to cup over the side of his ribcage. 

Jon licks his lips and pushes his chest out, as if asking for her to touch. He doesn’t ask. Not out loud. Not if he doesn’t have to. “As many as you want me to take,” he says. 

“Good boy,” she says. The hand on his neck moves to tug on his hair sharply to pull his head back. The motion makes him whimper, just a sharp little sound, and then he settles again. His adam’s apple bobs with the motion of him swallowing heavily. 

“Thank you,” he says. “Please.”

He’s still wearing his binder. Daisy considers this. She could do this over it, she supposes, but that’s neither the point nor something they’ve done before. She’s not sure it’s completely safe, either. Harder to make sure she’s hitting the right spots. Too easy to hit his ribs. She slides the hand on his ribcage up until she can hook one finger under the hem of it. “Take this off.”

Jon, with Daisy’s hand in his hair, swallows again. He can’t, of course. She’s pulling his head back enough that there’s no way he can do it without losing his balance, and he’s hesitant to ask her to move, or do anything at all. Even if he could manage pulling it up to his head he can’t actually take it off with Daisy’s hand in the way. 

“Well?” Daisy asks. 

“I can’t,” he mumbles. “Your hand is in the way.”

Daisy makes a little tutting sound, but she lets go anyway. “Quick,” she says. “I’ll be counting.”

Jon’s hands fly to the bottom of his binder, and then he’s pulling it up, over his head, off. It’s a newer one, no give to it yet, all stiff from lack of use, and it takes him a few seconds of struggle to get it over his shoulders. Daisy watches the bounce of his tits as he moves. The binder lands somewhere behind him in his hurry to be rid of it before Daisy gets too impatient. 

“Ten,” she says casually. 

Jon whimpers. His thighs press together slightly. Daisy reaches forward to twist one brown nipple between two of her fingers just to get him to twitch and whine with the shock of it. “Stay still,” she says. “You’re not going to like it if I miss.”

“Yes, sir,” Jon says. No brattiness today. Daisy’s not sure that’s going to last, but she’s happy enough with him being nice and easy for as long as he can manage it. 

“Tilt your chest up,” she says, and when he’s too slow she snakes around his body with a hand and pokes firmly against the dip of his back. He moves, and Daisy watches the soft movement of his chest, the little twitch of his mouth. “Good.”

The praise, although not rare, is uncommon enough that Jon’s eyes flutter closed at the word. She calls him all sorts of names, all the time, but good isn’t usually one of them. Brat’s more like it. In her defence he’s a brat more often than he’s good. 

Jon watches her with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. He doesn’t look down to look at his chest, even when Daisy’s eyes trail down from Jon’s face and to his tits. It’s alright, though. Daisy, without warning him, gives one of them a slap, hard enough to shock him but not hard enough to really hurt. That’s what the cane is for. Her hands are just to warm him up. 

Jon knows this, too, because the contact of her hand with his breast only jolts him slightly. Her palm against his nipple must hurt, just a little bit, but he takes it well, and Daisy slaps his other breast, still gentle enough. The slap turns into her groping, and then kneading the soft-firm flesh, and Jon hisses out a breath. Daisy ignores it. Puts her other hand on the other side of his chest. 

He’s not that sensitive, she knows. That’s what the cane is for. She digs her nails into the jut of one of his pebbled nipples, which she knows hurts because Jon sucks in a breath, one that says he _felt_ it. Good, she thinks. She takes her hands away. Jon watches her reach to her side, for the cane, and swallows heavily. 

“How many do you think you deserve?” she asks. Her hands slide up and down the length of the cane. “On top of the ten.”

“However many you think I deserve,” Jon says. 

Daisy raises an eyebrow. “I asked what you think.”

Jon makes a helpless face, because he knows that if he guesses wrong she’s going to come up with a punishment of some sort. “Ten,” he says. 

It’s smart, she supposes. If he guesses too high she just might pick that number. If he guesses too low she’s just going to go with what she was going to give him anyway. 

“Guess again,” she says airily. 

Jon whimpers. “Fifteen?”

Daisy hums contemplatively. “I think twelve,” she says. “What does that add up to?”

“Twenty two,” Jon whispers. “Sir.”

It’s a lot, Daisy knows. He can go for a long time with her hands, but the cane is scary and hurts and they might have to stop before they get there, which Jon knows, and Daisy knows as well. “Correct,” she says. “Sit up.”

Jon does. Daisy eyes him. The swell of his breasts. The soft cushion of them where they settle over his ribcage. If Jon was still human this would be dangerous, she thinks. She’d have him bent over so that she could get just his tits. It still is, but at least if she breaks a rib he’s going to heal fine. She grabs one of his breasts in her hand and squeezes. “Tell me why you deserve this,” she prompts. 

“I’m bad,” he says softly.

“Try again,” Daisy tells him. Her nails dig into the skin.

Jon swallows. “I fucked up.”

The real answer, of course, is that he asked for it, but that’s not really what the point is. “Better,” she says. “Sit still.”

The first whip of the cane is light. Or – not light, really, but it’s light enough. Jon hisses, and digs his nails into his thighs, and Daisy doesn’t pause, just gives him another three light swats. The cane lands close enough to his nipples to keep him very, very still. Daisy watches in amusement as his mouth falls open, and then when his eyes roll back. 

“Please,” he says when Daisy pauses to swat at his breasts, red marks already starting to raise on the skin. The skin is hot to the touch. 

“Did I tell you to talk?” Daisy asks mildly. She gives him another swat, a little harder this time, and Jon whimpers, half-muffled by his own tongue. “Be very careful, Jon.”

Jon doesn’t apologize. He also doesn’t say anything else. Daisy doesn’t stop, and by the time they get to ten, Jon’s sobbing. Not pretty, Daisy thinks. Snot and tears running down his face. Pathetic, really, but the sight of him, all broken and upset, just makes her want to hurt him more.

It’d be so easy to give him more than she knows he can take. Her arm wants to move harder, faster. Her muscles are still not as strong as they used to be, but she knows how little it takes for the cane to hit too hard. “Keep still,” she says sharply when Jon flinches away from the contact. The edge of the cane gets the very edge of his areola and Jon yelps. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. His chest, moving with the heaving of his chest, is red. She’s running out of skin to hit him, Daisy realizes. She doesn’t really want to break skin, even with his skin healing fast, now. The bruises and marks aren’t going to last for long, but they’re going to be gorgeous on him for as long as they do last. 

“Settle down,” she says. “Another eight, still.”

Maybe she should’ve made him keep count, she thinks. Would’ve made it easier. On the other hand keeping mental count is keeping her focused, too, which she might need, really. Jon sobs and squeals through the next three. 

“Five more,” Daisy says. Her hand reaches forward to trace over one of his nipples. “Do you want my hand or the cane?”

Jon shudders. Even with Daisy’s expert aim there’s not much room for error, now. She’s either going to hit an already red spot, or she’s going to hit his nipple. She guesses she could go higher, but then she’d risk bone, which is another thing she doesn’t want to do. 

“It’s okay,” she says. “It’s not a trick question.”

Jon hesitates anyway. “You’re going to break skin,” he says. 

“Mm,” Daisy says, “that’s right.”

Jon fidgets. 

“Jon. Color?” Daisy asks finally. 

“Green for continuing,” Jon says immediately. “You can,” he swallows. “You can overlap them.”

“It’s going to hurt,” Daisy says. She gives his nipple a swat. “And you’re going to bleed.”

Jon nods. “Okay.”

Daisy looks at him, half exasperation, half affection. “Fine.”

Jon gives her a hazy smile, and pushes his chest forward again. Daisy withdraws her hand. The cane feels heavy in her hand, suddenly. 

The cane doesn’t split his skin open immediately. It’s not like a knife, after all. The first two swats just hurt, Jon’s tits moving with the movement of his ribcage as he tries to keep breathing through the pain of it, but the third gets him across a raised red mark, which opens as if it _was_ a knife. Jon yelps, and then makes an incoherent noise, and Daisy doesn’t wait for him to react further before giving him another two swats. 

“That’s it,” she says. “Good.”

Jon, still sobbing, collapses forward. His head lands on Daisy’s knees. Daisy puts her hand in his hair, and Jon wraps his arms around her legs. 

It’s a little gross, really. The snot and tears dripping down and into the fabric of her jeans. Her nails scrape over the skin of his scalp anyway, her other hand reaching across his body to pet the bare skin of his back, and eventually his sobs turn into little hiccups, and then he stills. When he lifts his head to look at her his eyes are feverish and 

Daisy reaches down to touch his chest. “Show me,” she says softly, and when he does, “good boy.”

Jon shivers. He opens his mouth to say something. Closes it again. 

“Give me a moment,” she says. “I need the wipes.”

The wipes being the antiseptic ones she keeps nearby for these scenes, just in case. They hurt, she knows – the alcohol seeping into the broken skin. Jon hisses when she wipes the blood away carefully. “You’re okay,” she says, voice low. “I need to get you cleaned up.”

Jon whines. “It’s going to heal either way.”

Daisy makes a disapproving noise. “It’s a part of aftercare.”

“You just want me in pain for as long as possible,” Jon mumbles. 

Daisy chuckles. “I want you to not get infected cuts on your chest.”

Jon rolls his eyes, and then shifts. She watches him rub his thighs together plaintively. “D’you want my cock?” she asks. “Or are we done?”

Jon makes a contemplative noise. Rubs his legs together again, hips moving. “Mm,” he says. She can almost see him weigh the pros and cons of each option. Daisy’s strap inside of him, his sore chest rubbing against the floor as she fucks him relentlessly versus Daisy’s arms around him, allowing him to slot himself against the front of her body and drift. His hands move slightly by his sides, little flutters of his fingers. “I want to come,” he says finally. “Or try at least.”

“Go pick one,” she says. “Bring the harness too.”

“Okay,” Jon agrees. Hesitates, then. “Will you touch my chest?”

Daisy looks at the soft swell of his chest. Evaluates the damage they’ve done to it so far. The red marks turning purple. How nice it would be to dig her hands into the swollen, sensitive flesh of it. How satisfying the begging, the whimpers, the jerking of Jon’s hips. 

“Maybe,” she says. “Depends on if you’re good.”

Jon sighs. Wiggles his hips gently. “Okay,” he says softly. 

“Go,” says Daisy. 

And Jon does.


End file.
